


taught me to weep and moan

by fits_in_frames



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-17
Updated: 2007-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-21 12:04:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1549841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fits_in_frames/pseuds/fits_in_frames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don't know how you ended up in his car (it may or may not have involved a MaiTai and a prize-winning smile, but it doesn't matter now).</p>
            </blockquote>





	taught me to weep and moan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ionsquare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ionsquare/gifts).



> _mean old levee_  
>  _taught me to weep and moan_  
>  _mean old levee_  
>  _taught me to weep and moan_  
>  {led zeppelin // when the levee breaks}  
> 

You don't know how you ended up in his car (it may or may not have involved a MaiTai and a prize-winning smile, but it doesn't matter now). You kind of hate the thing--it's a scary motherfucker, big as a boat and probably guzzles gas like nobody's business--but you don't hate the worn, comfortable backseat.

And now he's kissing you: his tongue is soft and wet and he tastes like stale beer and potato chips, and his hand slips between your knees, up your skirt, wriggles its way between your thighs, paws your panties out of the way. It's then that you notice the music coming from the car stereo, something you vaguely remember from your childhood, something your father used to play when he was fixing the car and your mother would sniff at. It's rhythmic and repetitive and the singer is _moaning_ (you can't even tell what, it could be "baby" as much as it could be "maybe"), and then you realize that you've joined in, a rattling involuntary groan coming from your own throat as his rough fingers slide in and out of you. He thrusts against your body, cups one of your breasts with his free hand, breaks away from you.

His breath is hot against your lips and you hungrily crane your neck up for more, but his mouth drifts down your cheek, your neck, your chest, licking and nibbling along the way, pausing to tongue at your cleavage. Your chest hitches up automatically, and your hips follow, burying his fingers deeper inside you. He unbuttons your blouse with his teeth, a skill he must have pick up God knows where and trails his neat, damp tongue down your belly, stopping to swirl around your navel as he take his hand off your breast to pull your panties down. You unfist your hands to help him, wiggle them to down around your knees (he does the rest, and you're fairly sure you're never going to see them in one piece again), then rest your palms on your thighs as he lines your belly with little nipping kisses. The song has changed, another one you recognize but not by name, another rhythmic, pulsing guitarriffdrumbeatbassline combination. He stops, lifts his head, his breath still coming in short, warm puffs against your skin, and you look down at him as he smiles demonically at you, throws your skirt up over his head, and dives in. He grabs one of your ankles and puts your foot on his shoulder (his shirt feels threadbare and shabby, worn out, just like the skin on his palms), does the same with the other, careful to not get bits of you on your legs. You don't fucking care anymore because his tongue is darting in and out, skilled and warm and wet, and his front teeth keep brushing against your clit and you can't help but moan again (with the singer again, ironically you think you hear the words "going down" mixed in somewhere), bucking your hips up as you dig your fingernails into your knees and press your back against the armrest and _fuck_ his upper lip closes around your clit ever so gently as he arches his tongue upwards. You moan again, writhe into the back of the seat, pound of the front seat with your fist and he pulls his tongue out just as your orgasm starts and as the light flashes behind your eyelids, you suddenly realize that it's fucking _Led Zeppelin_ , fucking _Robert Plant_ , God.

Before your body relaxes against the soft leather, he's backed off and unzipped his pants and jerked himself off into a condom, so you sit up a little straighter, face the right direction, knees still trembling a bit, and paw around the floor of the car for your shoes and your purse. He licks his lips and holds out his hand and you grab a wad of fives and tens and ask _is that enough_. He nods and leans over into the front seat to turn off the stereo (it's playing another song now, wailing guitar lines and throbbing bass and all). You mouth, _thank you_ , and before you can really get a good look at his face (god, that face, those lips red with _you_ ), you open the door and slide out and hope your friends don't notice you're not wearing panties. He calls to leave the door open and as you walk back to the bar, you hear someone else's high heels scraping against the dirt. You don't turn around.


End file.
